


Slaves

by AsYouCommand (OminousHummingObelisk)



Series: Kibble & Bits & Bits & Bits [11]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Body Modification, Bottom Megatron, Deliberately Trashy Writing, Dirty Talk, Excessive Fluids, Fanfic for a fanfic, Hair-pulling, Humiliation, Let Megatron Say Fuck, M/M, No Safeword, Other, Service Top Tarn, Spanking, Teledildonics, dubcon, size queen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:35:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25484779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OminousHummingObelisk/pseuds/AsYouCommand
Summary: In which Damus, like the upright Decepticon soldier that he is, works tirelessly to fill the void in Lord Megatron's life.
Relationships: Damus|Tarn/Megatron
Series: Kibble & Bits & Bits & Bits [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/762441
Comments: 9
Kudos: 68





	Slaves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Spoon888](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spoon888/gifts).
  * Inspired by [To Give](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25451455) by [Spoon888](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spoon888/pseuds/Spoon888). 



> \- Spoon888 responded to my comment on [her glorious Service Top Tarn fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25451455) to say that Service Top Tarn needs more fics. So we wrote this, because he absolutely does.:3
> 
> \- This is just a fanfic for a fanfic, not a continuation of it or anything. We just liked the dynamics of the original.

Megatron always felt... _restless_ nowadays. As his position within the revolution grew more pivotal, the previous outlets for this sort of tension had dried up and he felt as if he might have to resign himself to never feeling satisfied again. Those thoughts made him angry, and he tried to channel that anger into his work, which, he supposed, made him both very efficient and increasingly terrifying to the people under him.

And everyone was _under him._ He suppressed a sigh. 

There was no particular reason why all of this was coming up right now, except that he was having to deal with Damus and his mind generally wandered to thoughts of nearly anything else whenever the enthusiastic little runt was hovering around for the privilege of smelling Megatron's exhaust or whatever other worshipful thing he was after. If it wasn't for his voice... Today, though, Megatron actually had a reason to bother with him and thus forced himself keep looking into the bright, adoring little optic down around waist level. "Thus, before I can truly place you at my right hand, you must be reframed into a suitable image of Decepticon might," he concluded. 

"A...a reframe? For me? Oh, my lord—!" Damus' optic started to shed electrical tears as he clasped his hands over his spark. 

Megatron had just enough self-control to keep his lip from curling. "Well, we shall have to consider what that image of might looks like, then." 

"Anything you want, my lord! Whatever would please you the most!" 

That gave Megatron pause. Hmm. _Hmmmmm._ He looked down at his sycophant with a newly considering optic. "Damus. You would like to serve me, wouldn't you?" 

"It's the only thing I live for, my lord!" 

"You'd serve me in _any_ way that I might demand?" 

"Absolutely!" 

Megatron smiled down at him and put a heavy hand on the little auto's shoulder, which made Damus' whole body tremble like a struck I-beam as he gasped with joy. "Very well. Then I will design your new body to my own specifications." 

* * *

The first time, Damus had required more than a little coaching, as he was extremely unwilling to put hands - or any other body part - on his lord in any kind of aggressive fashion. Only after Megatron heaped disapproval on him did he finally catch on, and oh, it was such a relief to have his snatch brutalized to even that tentative degree. Megatron looked down between his spread thighs as Damus lifted himself up and pulled out...and pulled out and pulled out and pulled out, until the whole glorious length of him flopped free and let the _deliciously_ excessive amount of fluid inside Megatron's valve gush out over the side of the mattress and onto the floor. 

Megatron smiled to himself, so pleased that he'd insisted on wedging the XXL transfluid tanks into his worshiper's new frame. Zero regrets. 

"My lord," Damus asked breathlessly, "did I satisfy?" 

"No," Megatron replied, scrutinizing his tool's titanic member. "Not quite yet." 

Damus made a broken little noise. Megatron somehow managed to haul himself upright and grabbed the dangling spike before it could withdraw into its housing. As eager to serve as the mech it was attached to, the spike slid back out and was hard in an instant. That was partly thanks to the advanced hydraulics system that Rossum had custom-built to fit inside of Damus' pelvic span. All the erecting force of an intergalactic shuttle's array in a package a third of the size. "I want piercings," Megatron told him. Damus bent over to look at his device as his lord gestured near the fluid nozzle at the tip. "A big ring here. And studs...here." He indicated two parallel lines on the underside of the overlapping ridges near the end of the shaft. "And have it done _expediently._ " 

Megatron made the mistake of looking up and saw Damus gazing at him with dreamy admiration. "As you command, Master," he murmured tenderly. His master might have thrown up in his mouth a little. 

* * *

The piercings made everything so much more intense. Megatron congratulated himself on his excellent decision as the tip of his nose was being blunted against Damus' pelvic plating while the purple tank eagerly humped his lord's face. After being commanded with increasing dissatisfaction several times, he'd finally taken the hint and was at least _somewhat_ holding Megatron's head in place - more of a tender cradling than the good, firm grip that his lord truly desired, though. He'd given the new body claws for a reason, and he would be sure to impress on Damus the importance of using them while servicing his master. 

But his tool was not doing too badly on the thrusting front. Megatron had had to change the angle of his throat and undo the software locks on his intake calipers so that the vast, ridged spear of Damus' mechhood could fit entirely inside of his head. The thick ring on the tip literally knocked against his fuel tank aperture, the cables on the outside of his neck were bulging, and the heavy rivets on the underside of the spike were making the most perfect, rapid rippling on his interior mesh as they chased each other relentlessly over his tongue. It was savage and it was heavenly and Megatron felt his eyes rolling back into his head with bliss until he accidentally picked up some of what Damus had been moaning during his otherwise magnificent skullfucking. 

"Oh Master. Oh Master. I love you. Oh Master, it's so good, _I love you—_ " 

Megatron's snarl of disapproval came out more like a gurgle, but apparently that was enough to tip his servant over the edge. Damus wailed as he smashed Megatron's face tight against his crotch and unloaded liters of spike-juice into his lord's overstuffed throat. Megatron's eyes sparked as he struggled to trigger his fuel tank open; some of the spill rushed back up the sides of Damus' immense junk and dribbled out over his chin before the aperture spread and he could refocus on swallowing hard around the shaft, urging it to dump more cum into his hungry tanks. He could practically feel them growing heavier under the weight of all the liquid spurting directly into them. Yes, yes, this was what they were made for - his mouth to suck off studs who only used him for their own pleasure, and his tanks to be stuffed full of their transfluid, as if his whole body was a mindless machine fueled by _hard, nasty fucking—_

"Oh, my lord, please forgive me! I— I finished before you gave me permission—" 

And there was the buzz, killed dead. Megatron attempted to snarl again around the spike - still huge even as it was softening - and leaned back to let it slide out of his throat. The rivets on the underside clattered against his teeth as it dropped free and Damus made a little aborted gesture as if he wanted to cup Megatron's face and make sure he was okay. 

Megatron sat back on his heels and gave Damus an openly disgusted look. It took him a couple of tries and some reconfiguration of his strained intake hardware before he could speak, and he still sounded far more hoarse than usual. "This is an order. You do not ever, ever apologize. Do you understand me?" 

"I... Yes? My lord?" Damus was clearly uncomfortable with the situation, but Megatron didn't care. Damus didn't even know what a safeword was and Megatron was never going to enlighten him. Their whole arrangement was solely for his benefit and he was certainly not going to give his servant _ideas_ about saying no just so he could treat his master _gently._

"Not terrible, but not to standard. Next time, I need _more._ " 

"'More,' Lord?" Damus was wringing his hands. His immense, magnificent device had completely hidden itself away, much to Megatron's sorrow. But not for long. 

"We're going to go again," he informed his servant. "And you're going to show me what you think 'more' means." 

* * *

Damus was tiresome to deal with even when he wasn't speaking. At least it was harder to see his expression of slavish worship once he started wearing the Decepticon brand mask more often. But during staff calls, he sat back in his chair, legs crossed and hands folded tidily in his lap, listening to everyone's presentation with the attentiveness expected of a good Decepticon...except when Megatron spoke, at which point he leaned far over the table as if he couldn't get close enough to the source of his master's voice. His eyes glowed brilliantly behind his mask as if every syllable was striking the very core of his adoring spark. 

Downright disgusting. And Megatron had to deal with it every single meeting. His annoyance at having to have Damus in his space usually led him to thoughts of why he even kept Damus around, and those inevitably led him to think about his worshiper's prodigious assets. He'd felt extra annoyed today, and consequently he'd spent most of an hour fantasizing about that long, thick shaft stretching him to near-bursting. He'd based its size on the outside tolerances of his own various holes, which he'd modded millennia ago to be extra-capacious. A little bit of bursting was just the icing on the cake, in his opinion, no matter how distressed Damus got over a little erotic fuelshed. 

Megatron recrossed his legs. He was pretty sure that he was leaking through his panels by this point. Oh, how his wanton fuckdroid robo-pussy needed to be _owned_ by a brute with a huge, terrifying— Oh. Staff call was over. They were waiting on him. He made a show of checking the datapad that he hadn't been following along on for the entire meeting and asked, "Any questions for me?" Shaking heads all around. Damus' head tilted a little to the left, his eyes alight with a rosy, tender glow that made Megatron want to punch him. "Dismissed." Furniture started clattering as everyone got up to leave. Megatron resigned himself to having to suffer through his sycophant's presence for a little longer if he wanted to get what he needed. "Except for you, Damus. We need to talk." Thankfully, nobody came up to him with any after-meeting business and the room cleared out. 

Damus picked up his datapad and rounded the table. "You needed to spea—?" 

Megatron sighed with exasperation. They did this almost every staff meeting and Damus still hadn't picked up on "we need to talk" as being code for "I need to fuck." He stood up, aware of the oil that immediately started running down his legs, and bent himself over the table as he released his panels. As he raised his aft toward his stud, his plump hole spread itself to receive what he hoped would be a ferocious mounting. " _Do me_ ," he commanded, glaring over his shoulder when he was not instantly assaulted. 

He heard Damus' datapad clatter to the floor as the various parts of his equipment activated in less than two seconds - two seconds too slow for his lord's tastes - before his clawed hands settled reverently on Megatron's hips. "Oh, Master, you're so beauti—" 

"Do _not_ talk," Megatron commanded. He'd tried over and over to make Damus be properly insulting during sex and had concluded that it was truly a lost cause. "Tell me to take it," he'd said once. "Take it, please," Damus had responded. If the idiot stayed silent, Megatron could at least fantasize that there was someone as uncaring and vicious as he needed on the other end of that spike. Indeed, now that Damus was wearing that ridiculous tryhard mask, Megatron found that it was interesting to imagine himself getting railed by the Decepticon Cause itself, a personified symbol of justice, tyranny, and strength. Yes, if the Cause itself was a mech, it would pack a weapon of just this caliber. 

Back in the present, Damus shut up and apologetically swatted his lord's pussy. Megatron jerked against the table with a grunt and Damus slapped him again, making Megatron's opening clench down hard on nothing as if it needed to come but couldn't. The frustration was _perfect._ Without asking permission - as Megatron had painstakingly trained him to do - Damus grabbed his hips and hauled him back, spearing his worthless fucktoy frame on that magnificent spike and starting up a merciless, hammering rhythm. Megatron felt so _used._ So carelessly defiled, like a _thing_ , like part of the furniture, a goddamn _household appliance_ built to take any fat spike that came along— 

Thankfully, the soundproofing on the staff call boardroom left him free to yell anything that he wanted, although he had to deal with Damus making disapproving noises every time he screamed something particularly inspired like _break my filthy little slut-hole, you huge fucking mechanimal._ Megatron was getting used to ignoring the crappy parts of Damus' technique in favor of staying drenched in fantasy. And right now he needed his fantasy conqueror to— 

"Do it!" he demanded, pounding a hand on the table. 

Damus hesitated and his rhythm stuttered. 

" _Do it, damn you!_ " 

A hand left his hip and returned a moment later at high speed, slapping the side of his aft with an almighty _THONGGG!_ Megatron roared, feeling the shockwaves slam through all his components to shudder against the huge spike that was still destroying his cunt. Damus knew how to spank him, and there'd be purple paint transfers on Megatron's hip where he'd beaten his own hand numb against his lord's armor. _BONGGGG!_ and Megatron roared again, feeling so wonderfully punished, just like a naughty little whore deserved to be. 

With trembling hands, he reached up, releasing the magnets holding his helmet on so he could shove it off and away, spreading his sensory panels eagerly. "Pull my flaps!" he demanded, and a hand closed firmly but carefully around them. "Dammit, _I will tell you if they're going to break_ , now—" And - bless Damus for occasionally slipping into role - two hands wrapped tight around the sensitive panels, claws digging into their joints, and his stud yanked backward on them to pull Megatron's whole weight onto his spike, again, again— Megatron's scream might have cracked into a falsetto and the fingers on his crest started to loosen. " _Don't you dare!_ " And they dug back in. 

Showing astonishing initiative once more, Damus kept yanking on the panels with one hand and used the other to slap Megatron's aft so hard that the whole conference table juddered underneath them from the secondary vibrations. And the warlord felt so degraded, so mocked and helpless and abused, that he came blindingly hard with a scream so loud that his vocalizer cut out a second into it. The spike was so huge that his valve had no room to ripple and squeeze around it; his calipers just uselessly blunted their efforts against the ungodly girth. His user's hands dragged him back by his sensory panels and then there was a hot rush of fluid filling him up, and yes, yes, he needed it, his starving little hole existed just to catch this perfect spike's scalding river of jizz. Oh, it was so good, and Megatron was a dirty little tramp for wanting it. He was such a sick turbopuppy. Just the _sickest._

After the long moments that it took Damus' enormous cum reservoir to empty into his master, the servant gently untwisted the sensory panels from around his fingers, carefully patted them so they laid more or less as they were supposed to, and dragged his vast tool free. A stream of liquid started to patter steadily to the ground out of Megatron's valve and the warlord sighed happily, feeling deeply fulfilled. 

And then that mobofucking buzzkill had to ruin it with, "May I help you clean up, Lord?" Megatron hammered a fist on the table in frustration. "Oh damn, I'm sorry, I forgot—" 

"You _use me_ and then _leave!_ " Megatron roared at full volume, managing a bleary glare over his shoulder. "Unless I _tell_ you to stay, don't fucking _ask!_ " 

"Yes, Lord. Forgive me, Lord. I promise I will remember." Megatron glared harder at where Damus was clutching his datapad to his breast, staring dejectedly at the floor. 

"Get out," his lord commanded. "And don't fuck it up next time." 

* * *

The Grindcore assignment was something that Megatron thought was a particularly clever move on his part, although it came with great personal sacrifice. Specifically, the sacrifice of Damus' immense junk, which Megatron had grown used to enjoying whenever the mood took him. Sure, this stationing would be a way to get Damus away from him before Megatron literally murdered him out of sheer irritation _and_ it should allow his servant to fine-tune the use of his killing voice, but...he'd literally have to go cold turkey from that spike, and he was not sure if his sanity could handle it. His mood, for many days now, had been grim, and he had been forcing himself to abstain from Damus' humongous equipment in an attempt to train himself for the dark, dongless times ahead. 

"Master?" Damus asked after a staff call (which Megatron had spent in mourning over the spike that he wasn't going to have afterward). He was carrying a rather large box. "May I...make a proposition?" 

Megatron waved a hand vaguely and Damus put the box down in front of him and opened the top. Megatron looked inside. Then he kept looking. 

"I had them custom made," Damus said. "Their largest size was much too small. I even had the piercings—" 

Megatron kissed him full on the mask.  


Damus blinked in shock. "I love you," he said.  


"Don't ruin this for me," Megatron told him, patting him on the cheek. 

* * *

Three million years later, the main screen on the bridge of the _Peaceful Tyranny_ was lit up with a towering image of Megatron bending over the control panel for the vidscreen in his own room. Tarn had, of course, cleared and locked the bridge against his team so that he could accept this "Top Secret" communication from his master. He was holding a huge tube lined with valve-like textured padding, using both hands to keep the giant thing steady as he thrust into it with wild abandon. 

And, through the magic of ansible-based teledildonic technology, every tiny variation in his thrusting was instantly translated to the huge piston that was currently magnetized to Megatron's aft. It hammered into him and withdrew in perfect detail, and it absolutely did feel like Tarn was standing right behind him instead of floating several billion miles away. 

Megatron was doing what, in lesser mecha, might be called _wailing._ "Fuck my cunt, Tarn!" he howled. "Break my pussy open! _Harder!!_ " 

And Tarn obediently clanged the poor innocent meshlight even harder, trusting in the thousands of positive reviews of this teledildonics company which declared that their products could stand up to millions of years of hard use. Just like his lord could. Reaching deep down inside himself to the core of his Decepticon strength, Tarn managed to dredge up a tiny fragment of filthy talk as a gift to his beloved one. "I'm going to make you lick this off the ground after." 

A beatific smile crossed Megatron's face as the degradation made him come like a steel trap, his joints and organs creaking as his entire body lent its power to his climax. Once again, the piston somehow survived the pressure. Megatron was now doing what, in lesser mecha, might be called _sobbing._

On the other end, the meshlight squeezed Tarn's enormous shaft just as if it were part of Megatron, and he was finally overcome. The end of the tube had been left open - "We can put a reservoir on the end of it," the company had told him, and Tarn had said, "Trust me, you can't." - and the explosion of thick, delicious transfluid painted the entire comms panel. Megatron sighed sadly as he watched the firehosing spike continue to empty itself. All of that belonged in his disgusting cumbucket of a valve, not all over electronic equipment that couldn't even appreciate it. Still, this was far better than never getting the S from Tarn ever again. 

"You can clean that, right?" Megatron asked blearily. He had the impression this was something that he asked every time and just never remembered doing it. 

Tarn was leaning over the completely obscured bank of buttons and dials, ventilation system heaving. "I keep buckets of isopropyl under the counters just for this," he said. 

"That's a good mech." Megatron hung up. 

Tarn blinked back tears from the praise, feeling almost as if he could come all over again from the joy of it. 

* * *

They were waiting until sunset, Tarn and all his allies, letting the terror build in their prey. And then the comm had gone off, the phone that only one person could call, and Tarn was embarrassingly quick to duck into an empty room to answer. 

He shouldn't have answered at all. It had been thousands of years since their last contact, and even longer since their last tryst. He'd assumed that Megatron had found other huge-spiked mecha to satisfy him while Tarn, loyal even in his loneliness, continued to travel the galaxy and do truly vital work for the Cause. Tarn had always felt guilty anyway, knowing that he wasn't especially good at what Megatron wanted. Maybe his lord had settled on someone with a normal-sized spike who could yank his sensors, slap his pussy, and call him a pathetic whore fuckslut with far more conviction than Tarn ever could. He'd always been inadequate. In everything. 

Tarn had been soaking himself in the pain of his master's betrayal just as he had tried to drown himself in nuke, and yet all of it vanished as soon as he heard the comm unit ring. A surge of irrational happiness had filled him as he realized that he would be hearing his lord speaking _directly to him_ again, after so long— 

"M—" _Master._ "M—" _My lord._ "...Megatron," he finally managed. 

"Tarn." Megatron's voice lacked the savage fire that it had once had, that whiplike snap of command. 

"I have nothing to say to you." And he didn't. Not anymore. He moved his finger to hang up. 

"This is a booty call," Megatron said. 

Tarn's finger froze. "What?" 

"You know where my statue is, out in the field of flowers?" 

"Of cou—" 

"I'll be there in ten minutes with my panels open. If you don't show, I will be very, very disappointed. And also very horny." 

Tarn's spark was withering inside of him. He...couldn't go talk to Megatron, it defeated the whole purpose of making the prey wait, it broke the script, it— But. But. 

Megatron hung up. 

Tarn headed for the outside door as fast as he could walk and maybe still look casual. 

"What's going on? What did Megatron say?" the others all asked. 

"I, ah, need to do something," Tarn explained as he lowered the ramp and prepared to leap off the end of it in altmode because it was moving too damn slow. "Elsewhere. Don't worry, I'll be back. Eventually. Don't come looking for me." 

The rest of the DJD watched in confusion as the tank hurled himself into the air and sped off into the flowers as fast as his treads could carry him.

**Author's Note:**

> ANSIBLE PENIS GETS THE JOB DONE


End file.
